


Don't Walk Alone in the Dark

by Write_like_an_American



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Consensual Kink, Consensual Sex, Dom/sub, False Identity, Kraglin getting very pissed off at slavery in general, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Self-Lubrication, Slavery, Undercover, dom!yondu, hints of non-consensual sex in the background between minor characters, sub!kraglin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-28 01:29:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16231388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: "Fuck this," Yondu confides in him, before they open the door. But by then, of course, it's far too late.Short on cash, Yondu and Kraglin take a job infiltrating a Kree slave ring.





	Don't Walk Alone in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> **It seems everyone and their dog is posting a smutty oneshot atm, and I'd be remiss if I didn't join in, considering how much of it I wrote on holiday... :sweats: Just to say, there are hints that the Kree do Bad Things to their slaves, but it's all involving background characters and all explicit sex is heartily consensual.**

"Fuck this," Yondu confides in him, before they open the door. But by then, of course, it's far too late.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They're desperate, that's why. It's the only reason they'd consider it. But the crew's hungry - and, Kraglin suspects, of more concern to cap'n - the kid's hungry too.

 

He woke 'em up that morning, an hour before Yondu caved and agreed to this job. Kraglin'd been half-asleep, not concentrating on the words, but he remembers how his lil' mouth opened and closed, all empty and pink, like that of a hungry baby bird.

 

Yondu filled him in later on what'd been said. Nothing but protein packs left in the galley, the kid claimed, and those'd been got by the rats and the rot.

 

So it's with hollow stomachs and hollower pockets that they tramp up the staircase towards the high-class Kree club, where they'll be hunting a fat old sleazebag who some rival industry mogul wants dead. The club where Kraglin will be posing as a Xandarian defector, one of the many whose families were elevated to lordship during the interstellar wars.

 

And where, of course, Yondu will be posing as his slave.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Yondu's been quiet ever since he stalked to the bridge and dialled up the contact, giving him his word that the job would be done. Deadly quiet, as Kraglin fumbled with his necktie, combed his mohawk over the scar from a blaster-bolt five-years-past and tucked in the stiff-starched tails of his shirt.

 

Awfully quiet, endlessly quiet, as he tipped his neck forwards and let Kraglin fasten his collar.

 

Kraglin doesn't ask where he got that. Doesn't ask how old it is - whether it's a new acquisition, or if it's been mouldering at the bottom of Yondu's floordrobe since the day Stakar took it off him. Doesn't ask, doesn't ask, doesn't ask.

 

And Yondu doesn't speak. Not until they're nearly at the doors, until the guard's eyes are on them, until there ain't no way they can turn back.

 

"Fuck this."

 

Quiet. Raspy. Soft enough that only Kraglin can hear.

 

Kraglin hates him, in that moment. Hates him for putting himself in this position, but also for putting Kraglin in it. Because there ain't no retreat. They can't return to their ship and fly away, no matter how much Kraglin wants to. They promised results, and when your kitty's as mangy and thin as theirs, you have to rely on reputation.

 

You don't build your rep from backing out on a contract. They have men to feed - a child to feed. And the guard's already swaggering forwards to check their papers, picking Kraglin's ghost-white face from the crowd.

 

He doesn't reply. The guard's too close. Just reaches up and touches the back of Yondu's collar, tucking two fingers in against the warm of his neck.

 

"Hello," he says to the guard, striving to sound like he's had three generations' worth of silver spoons shoved up his ass. "Ticket should cover me and my personal slave."

 

He'd offered to take Yondu's role. Course he had. Would've made more sense, even, for the blue man to be the one in charge, walking into a room full of Kree.

 

But _blue_ don't equate _belonging,_ not here. To those born on Hala, Yondu's implant and red eyes couldn't be more obvious than if he'd shown up wearing a sandwich placard that said  _inferior race._

 

And anyway, as Yondu had muttered to Kraglin on the way over (slouched in the co-pilot's seat with his bare shoulders up to make himself look bigger than he was) slaves are drilled for years in the arts of servitude before they 're allowed anywhere _near_ a function this classy. Kraglin, with his two left feet and clumsy hands, would most likely spill a wine pitcher on someone important and get himself slated for execution.

 

The guard scans his ticket. Yondu stands by his side. Head lowered, eyes down. His lashes cast little shadows that grow and recede when he blinks.

 

His neck quivers, ever so slightly, under Kraglin's hand.

 

The guard slides his scanner back into his pocket. "Welcome to Bohemellia," he says, and ushers them in.

 

Lush white velvet gleams all around, poured onto every surface. Looks mighty spiffy, though Kraglin wonders how they get out stains. Most likely, it's all ripped off and replaced after every night. The proprietors of this fine, upstanding, slave-mongering establishment can certainly afford it.

 

Everywhere Kraglin looks, he sees blue. Used to be, that was his favorite color. The color of cap'n sprawled on messy sheets before him, beckoning him closer, pulling Kraglin onto his lap with a metal-capped grin. Now, it only spikes his sense of danger.

 

Kree, everywhere. They're surrounded.

 

The next party of socialites steps through the swinging saloon doors behind them. Kraglin feels the heat of their laughter on his nape. From their slaves - a small, green-scaled girl, no more than sixteen, and a Kylorian boy, dressed to the nines in violet silks - there's nothing. Not a peep, not a sharply in-drawn breath, not even when the taller of the Kree tugs at the girl's bejewelled leash.

 

"Come on," he says, in his posh nasal drawl. "What's the hold-up?"

 

Mostly, thoughts of how much Kraglin wants to burn this place to the ground. He plasters on his best smile and presses on Yondu's lower back, hoping he'll get the message.

 

Yondu obediently steps aside. Then he stops again, waiting, head bowed.

 

Of course. Kraglin's supposed to walk first. No following cap'n, not here.

 

"I said, what's the hold-up?" the Kree boy demands. He's only eighteen or so, barely older than the girl he's got collared like a misbehaving pup. But the careless, arrogant way he toys with her leash - keeping her breath a little short, a little painful - makes anger knot Kraglin's guts.

 

He doesn't reply - doesn't trust himself to. He leads the way, Yondu's own leash slack in his fist.

 

That's one of the rules of this place, you see. _No slaves off-lead._

 

Yondu makes no outward show of discontent. He trots at Kraglin's heels, watching his bare feet - nails cut and polished, ankles adorned in the few bits of glint they haven't yet pawned.

 

Kraglin leans in as close as he dares, speaking from the corner of his mouth. "We's here until we find the guy, boss. Then we kill him, kill as many of the others as we can, and get the everloving fuck out. Yeah?"

 

Yondu makes no indication that he's heard. Slaves ain't supposed to speak.

 

Kraglin surveys him a moment longer, nibbling his lip. Then he figures that if they want to get this over with ASAP, he'd better hurry up with the mingling. With an awkward, too-gentle tug, he leads his collared captain to the bar.

 

This is a poor choice. The boys from the doorway congregate there, along with a number of young women, seated on tasselled pouffs. Their pretty boy-toys attend to their manicures and occasionally pamper them with a fresh perfume squirt. The whole area has a far more relaxed atmosphere than Ravager watering holes. There it's first come, first served and you're all elbowing one another for the barkeep's attention.

 

This barkeep has a ring around her neck.

 

Three long chains rattle as she walks from one end of the barback to the other, feeding through loops on the floor. She smiles and simpers, flirts and flutters her lashes, but when one of the boys reaches over the bar and scoops up a handful of her tit, her eyes flash hunted for all of a second before she sets down her current glass and pushes her chest forwards, chin level, staring straight ahead in silent presentation.

 

"Think I'll go a round with this one later," he says. Musing, addressed more to his friend, as if the girl can't hear. "My father's a friend of the owner; he'll be more than happy to loan me her services."

 

The girls titter and nod. The other boy, the one with the male slave, effects an elegant shrug.

 

He's young too, horribly, sickeningly so. Kraglin was murdering men when he was his age (hell, he stuck his first in an alley aged seven, after a pickpocketing went awry). But he hasn't ever been _cruel._ Not like this. Not to other living, sentient people - and he's gotta stop glaring, before someone notices.

 

"Not my type, I'm afraid," the boy says. "Have fun, though."

 

"Oh, I will." The other Kree leaves the barmaid with a last pinch of her breast. "Looks like they'll bounce nicely when you fuck her."

 

"Mm."

 

"So _vulgar,_ " says one of the young ladies, twittering another laugh. The young Kree lord turns to her with a debonair smirk.

 

"You're welcome to join us, of course."

 

His friend isn't listening. He toys lazily with his slave boy's silks. Tugging, peeling them away from his skin. That skin's perfect: unblemished, Kylorian-pink, the color of a setting sun. When he runs his nails over it, it grows four maroon weals.

 

The slave doesn't so much as flinch.

 

And, to Kraglin's consternation, those callous purple eyes rove to Yondu.

 

His captain's a mighty fine man. Kraglin's first to admit it. Boss is twenty-something, cusping the decade above. This is only by Kraglin's reckoning - divining ages is an inexact science, out in the black, as every species wilts a little faster or slower than its neighbour. Yondu's young yet, scarred no more than can be expected from an ex-slave who made the occasional bid for freedom, and his red implant complements his electric-blue skin.

 

He's a shade brighter than the Kree. Like he's had his colors turned up on full saturation.

 

Kraglin sees this, sees all of it, like he sees the want in the young Kree's eyes.

 

"Greetings, friend," says the kid. He's talking to Kraglin, of course - though his gaze never leaves Yondu. It travels up and down him, focusing on his loincloth. Kraglin bets he wants to flick it up, paw him over like he's buying a horse. "Would you care to join us? Your man can sit by me, if you'll permit it."

 

Kraglin's throat closes. He has to count to ten before he can hear himself think. His knuckles stand out white around the leash, and he finds himself focusing on the barmaid and her placid green eyes.

 

Beneath that veneer of submission is a bone-weary terror. A fear so inescapable that it becomes the new baseline, the new reality.

 

He can't look at Yondu. He can't bear to see even the _memory_ of that expression on his face.

 

"You won't touch my property," he says, smooth as he can.

 

The Kree shrugs. "Whatever."

 

Kraglin snaps his fingers for the barmaid and orders something strong enough to put a shine over the day without compromising his mission. He has her make up a tab in their client's name. That weren't part of the deal, but hell, Kraglin figures he deserves it.

 

As he walks away, he knows the Kree boy is watching Yondu. Watching his ass roll, the sway of his loincloth from side to side. He knows Yondu knows it too - sees it in the tension of his shoulders.

 

An impotent, roaring fury wells up inside him. Kraglin wants to slam his fists into that boy's princely face. Show him what a real fight looks like. Scream for him to stop ogling, not because Yondu is _his,_ but because Yondu is _Yondu's,_ and he don't belong to nobody, not ever again...

 

He wants to hold the brat still while cap'n whistles him through.

 

His drink burns against the back of his throat. Yondu's knuckles brush his; the first contact he's initiated all day. He doesn't talk. Can't, without Kraglin's permission. But he looks at him from under his lashes.

 

_Calm down._

 

Kraglin realizes his hand is trembling. He drains the glass, leaves it on an empty table.

 

They have a job to do, a mark to kill. Kraglin gathers his wits. He touches where he's stashed his knives: left forearm, right hip. He rubs his knees to feel the slim hilts strapped to both of his shins. Yondu has his arrow in a holster, pressed against the meat of his thigh. It glints every now and then as his loincloth swings. 

 

It's as they turn to make their way to the upper decks of the club (where masters lounge around card tables, their slaves sprawled on their laps or standing dutifully one pace behind) that Kraglin spies a mound of blubbery blue, waddling for the bathrooms. He catches Yondu's wrist.

 

"See that?" he whispers, too low for the nearest party-goers to hear. "Sir?"

 

The word tastes sweet in his mouth. Yondu's lips tic up at one corner. He nods and steps back so that Kraglin can lead the way.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Later, Kraglin rinses the dark, greasy Kree-blood from Yondu's arrow. They painted that damn club black as tar. The repair cost might actually put a dent in the day's earnings, especially as the Bohemellia ain't likely to see new patrons for quite some time. 

 

Washing the arrow is a chore, it's true - but an intimate, private one that no one else is permitted to do. Just dipping it in the scuzzy basin fills Kraglin's chest with a concerning fluffiness, as if his ribcage has been replaced with whipped marshmallow. He likes it far more than he should. He runs the arrow back and forth under the crusty old faucet until the fletching glistens.

 

"There," he says. "Good as new." He pads back into their bedroom, propping his bony ass on the desk.

 

Yondu grunts a thank you. He saunters over, slipping the arrow from Kraglin's fingers. Their knees bump. Kraglin's seated; Yondu stands.

 

Boss has taken off the collar. His fuck-slave outfit is neutered; no longer something sickening. Just a costume, like the crappy masks Quill fashions on _Halloweenie_ (a sacred Terran ritual that he insists must be upheld at least once a year).

 

Yondu could've stripped off by now, piled himself back into leathers. It's only the collar he'd need Kraglin's help to undo, holding himself perfectly still while Kraglin figured out how to slip the latch.

 

Kraglin casts a quick glance at his throat. Looks much better bare - though if you look close enough, you can make out the faint, silvery cross-hatch of a decade-old scar.

 

Yondu slides the arrow onto the desk, between the piles of shimmery trinkets. Then he looks up at Kraglin, unreadable as ever, and steps between his legs.

 

Kraglin's breath catches. His gaze dips past the golden hoops in each of Yondu's ear lobes, the spangling armbands, the bracelets that adorn his wrists and the shiny fake jewels on his rings. Fake sunshine spills over Yondu from above. sliding across his skin. In the dingy cabin, his blue glows all the brighter.

 

"Sir," says Kraglin. His hands drift towards Yondu's hips.

 

Yondu makes the choice for him. He drags 'em there, squeezes so they stay. Then he loops his own arms round Kraglin and, with no discernible effort, hoists all six-some gangly feet of him up.

 

Kraglin squawks with typical elegance. He has to wrap his legs around Yondu so he doesn't flump straight off again. But then they're moving, Yondu turning with him attached, striding to the bed like Kraglin don't weigh nothing, carrying him like a child.

 

Kraglin swallows. Smiles. Tucks his face into the side of Yondu's neck and breathes warmly over that collar scar, as cap'n lays him down.

 

Yondu pushes his legs up, kisses his bony knees through his pants. His face's doing that strange, blank thing, like it does sometimes on Bridge when he's trying to figure out how to play his men, what they need to see - whether they want him to be the angry captain, the cheery captain or the captain who'll smack 'em on the backs and congratulate them for a solid day's work.

 

Kraglin doesn't need to be played. He grabs Yondu by the ears, pulling him up his body.

 

Yondu comes. His sharp teeth clonk on Kraglin's, and his sour breath huffs over his lips, and his eyes quiver shut as he settles on his mate, hands knotted into his stupid, flouncy shirt.

 

Kraglin breaks away first. Spit trails his chin - clean-shaven, for once (he don't much like it; his skinny neck gets cold).

 

"Wanna take this off me, sir?" he asks, motioning to his shirt.

 

Yondu cracks a grin. There's a short sharp rip, a clatter of buttons smacking the far wall. He tore out a fair portion of Kraglin's chest hair too, but Kraglin figures that was accidental. 

 

"S'cool," he manages, wincing. "Wasn't gonna wear that again anyway."

 

Yondu chuckles. He still ain't said a word, but the silence grows warmer by the second, heated by their rising breaths.

 

Yondu drops one last bite of a kiss against Kraglin's mouth. He slithers back the way he came. His nose bumps Kraglin's sticky-out ribs, his belly button. Kraglin cusses, wriggling his bony ass until he finds a point where he ain't being sodomized by a mattress spring. He gathers a handful of cushion to wring above his head.

 

"Sir..."

 

Yondu shushes him. He parts his lips over Kraglin's pants. Those pink, long-lashed eyes gaze up at him, soft but ravenous, as he licks him over, sloppy and slow.

 

Kraglin rises to it, helpless, desperate. He fills fast, throbbing against Yondu's mouth, the zipper digging painfully tight. He claws at the pillow, holding his legs wide as he can, pressing his hips up for _more..._

 

"Yeah," Yondu husks. They're his first words since that awful little _Fuck this,_ outside the club. "Thassit, boy. Lemme..."

 

He tugs his fly. It peels open, Kraglin pushing through, tenting his grotty old boxers. Their budget didn't extend to new undies. Still, Kraglin kinda likes it: the thought that he walked into a bar that swish with more holes in his underwears than fabric.

 

Especially since his dick finds one of those holes, and Yondu gets to work.

 

Hot, slick heat. It parts around Kraglin, slips over him, sucks him deeper. A jagged tooth grazes him every time Yondu breathes.

 

That's okay. That's good. The flashes of pain spark in Kraglin, igniting his blood, making his hairy belly clench.

 

"Boss," he gasps. " _Boss._ "

 

Yondu kneels on the bed, rocking to the rhythm of his swallows. Kraglin shudders at the thought of him, all slicked up and throbbing under the tight loincloth thong, pressing his wet lil' hole on his heels.

 

Fuck, he wants him. This way, every way, again and again for as many years're left in 'em.

 

He quits strangling his cushion, cupping Yondu's hollowed cheeks instead. Boss leads the pace, torturous-slow, rolling his tongue under the shaft in time with his bobs. His eyes stay locked on Kraglin's, timing their blinks.

 

Kraglin's pelvis tremors. The need to thrust builds in his lower spine, cramping until it's all he can think of.

 

Kraglin don't let himself. His reward comes in short order; cap'n tugs off him with a sloppy pop, licks his spit-shone lips and crawls up his body. He reaches behind himself, pressing in with a knuckle, testing the give.

 

His species might self-slick, but it'll still be a stretch. Kraglin normally slaps a dash of lube over everything to ensure smooth operation - but one look at Yondu's face holds him back.

 

Boss has this in hand. He knows damn well what he's doing.

 

The loincloth tickles Kraglin's thighs. Yondu hovers over him, close enough for Kraglin to feel his heat. A single bead of slick plops free, lands quivering on Kraglin's belt buckle.

 

Then Yondu slides back, down, _on,_ keeping his thong hooked to the side. He sighs like he's been waiting for this his whole damn life.

 

Kraglin adds his own groan to the mix. His body knows the one above him, knows this join between them: the overlay of blue on white, the plush mold of cap'n round his cock. He rocks up into it, and Yondu pushes to meet him.

 

They ride the wave together, steady, unhurried; the sex of two men who know there ain't no need to rush, that they have tomorrow too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"You okay?" Kraglin says in the aftermath. He winds around Yondu like a constrictor snake: one bony leg crushed between blue thighs and another tossed over the top. He squeezed half the stuffing out of his pillow earlier, but that's okay, 'cause he rests his head on Yondu's scar-strewn chest. "You sure you're okay?"

 

They're in those precious five post-coital minutes where anything can be said without repercussion. Nevertheless, that level of sentimentality earns Kraglin a smack.

 

Kraglin bears it. He nuzzles closer, tucking one thumb in the warm silk of his captain's pouch.

 

"Course you are," he mumbles, as the arms around him tighten.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Thank you for reading! As always, comments and kudos make my day.**


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